'The loss of education is the loss of the future itself': Palestinian Children and Educators on Two Years Without School.

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I mourned my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents deserve texts, learning environments and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in the region for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always thought education should be full of life. My learning environment was a space of amusement, art, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity replaced anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families fleeing the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our existence: protection, dwellings, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – youth who mentioned dreaming of doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, educators, helpers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several